S m o k e B a b y
by Geheimnis
Summary: Songfic one-shot based on Hawksley Workman's "Smoke Baby." Jack is leaving and Will wants to change his mind. JW Slash.


Author's Note - _This was one of those kinds of things that falls of out of your head if you shake it too hard. I liked it though, and so I'm sharing it. It's a songfic based on the fantastic song called (no kidding) "Smoke Baby" by Hawksley Workman - which I_ did not _write although I've listened to it far too many times. I very much recommend it._

* * *

Smoke Baby 

_in your underclothes  
  
you went out for a smoke  
  
i call you in  
  
just before the storm begins_  
  
He was perched like a cat, his legs languorously stretched along the windowsill. One ringed hand had been left to trail casually along the wall below, and there was a compact rolling of tobacco between the long fingers of the other. Now and again, he would lift the cigarette to his mouth before letting tendrils of smoke trail out over his lips. Will would have let his eyes linger there - on the pirate's delicate mouth - while thunder rolled in through the open window, but Jack caught him watching. His dark eyes were hooded.  
  
"It would be a mistake, Will."  
  
The blacksmith said nothing. He laid his head back onto his pillow instead, and Jack turned his gaze to the landscape outside the window in equally silent retort. There were no gull-cries on the electric air, only the gentle grumbling of the swelled purple sky and the chilled exhale that was the wind. The breeze was enough to move Jack's black mane of hair about his shoulders and to make the sleeve of his unbuttoned shirt tremble when he lifted his cigarette to draw on it. Though, Will thought idly, the tremble may not have been due to the wind alone.  
  
"It's going to start to rain," Will remarked. "You might as well come back inside."  
  
"Only a fool minds the rain," Jack replied softly after a moment. His eyes played on the evening street below, lingering only briefly on each passing face.  
  
_your last breath of smoke  
  
you let out in the room  
  
it makes a cloud  
  
like the grayest  
  
perfect plume_  
  
Jack conceded after a time. He flicked the remains of his cigarette to the street beneath his window and turned back to the dim room. The last of the smoke crept unhurriedly from his mouth as he exhaled, and his face was momentarily obscured. Will watched the blue-gray haze slowly dissipate before lazily turning his gaze once more to the man who had taken a seat at the end of the bed. Will raised his eyebrows.  
  
Jack pointed to the wall behind the bed instead of acknowledging that. "In the room there," he said, "there is, no doubt, a veritable gaggle of attractive women." He pointed to the opposite wall. "And in that one, too. Professional women."  
  
Will blinked slowly. "Then why are you here with me?" Jack made a point of allowing his russet eyes to travel down Will's bare chest before deliberately stopping at the sheet that formed a line beneath the visible bones of his hips. Unlike Will before, Jack had no qualms about allowing his eyes to linger.  
  
He allowed himself a small smile. "Because it would be a mistake." The blacksmith would have replied, but Jack had the sleekness and speed of an otter in elements apart from water. Bedsheets also came to mind, Will thought before his rationality took its leave.  
  
_oh smoke baby, smoke baby  
  
more alcohol baby  
  
cocaine in Montreal   
  
and back out on a plane baby  
_  
Later, after his heart had slowed and the sweat and cooled and the candles had disappeared into themselves, Will listened to Jack move in the dark. Jack fumbled under the bed before producing a tall bottle that he brought to his mouth where he lay. The liquid's sharp odor made Will fully awake. He opened his eyes wide in the dim, and marveled at how little light the moon actually cast.  
  
"Share with me," he said suddenly, badly startling the pirate. An unsteady hand cast wordlessly about for Will's arm, then traced it down to the fingers. A cool bottle was pushed into them, and Will took a nip from it in the dark. He winced as the liquid flamed down his throat, knowing that in the second drink there would be less pain. The same was true of many things.  
  
_an early flight will leave and on it will be me  
  
I'll be half asleep  
  
and you'll get up at three_  
  
"I haven't changed your mind about leaving, have I?" Will asked him. He was conscious of the hopeful note that tumbled from his mouth and cursed himself for it, though he knew what Jack's answer would be before he was answered silkily in the black.  
  
"You know that's an unfair thing to ask, Will."  
  
Will was silent for several moments. Then, "What about the pain?"  
  
"Pain is fleeting, mate."  
  
" ... and love?"  
  
"Moreso."  
  
"Sometimes - " Will's throat caught. "Sometimes ... it's hard to tell the difference."  
  
"Is there a difference?"  
  
_casual as a light  
  
flickers before it's night  
  
sadness comes  
  
and the daylight turns and runs  
_  
He was gone when Will woke. Will didn't need to roll over and see himself alone in the bed to know. He didn't need to see Jack's jacket gone from the doorknob to know. He felt that the room was empty - that he was empty. Will was grateful, at least, that Jack had drawn the curtains of the window.  
  
He could remain in darkness a little while longer.  
  
_as the sun is setting you'll be betting  
  
i'll be getting through  
  
I'll find a payphone baby  
  
and take a minute to talk to you_  
  
Will received occasional letters. They were always cordial and brief. They were always filled to the brim with names of exotic places and ports as though Jack were afraid something personal might creep out from under his quill if there were any spare words. As a general rule, Will would disregard them after a cursory glance - they had come too far and too long to retain anything of their writer.   
  
But he saved every letter. And he hoped, against hope, that the next or the next would seem more like it was from Jack and not from the post. He wanted it to smell like Jack - he wanted it to smell like smoke and salt and Sparrow spice. He wanted it to be warmed from his hand. He wanted to see the leg-jiggle Jack could not avoid whenever he was forced to sit and be still and write.  
  
He wanted to see Jack perched and smoking on the windowsill of a whorehouse in whose employees he was not in the least interested in.  
  
_and i have never felt  
  
quite this close to hell  
  
all this rock and roll baby  
  
only time will tell_  
  
His hand wouldn't move. He had promised - _promised_ - Will that he would write to him as often as he could, but every time he did his hand refused to cooperate. It was as though his own hand did not believe the drivel that he penned instead of what was in his head, or what was in his heart. But thoughts like those only swung into focus after Jack had been drinking methodically for some time. And that was becoming more and more often.  
  
_but we're young now, having fun now  
  
on the town now, get around now  
  
it's fine for now  
  
but someday we'll settle down  
  
but not now  
_  
Jack was in another room with the curtains thrown open to catch the moon, and there was another body beside him on another bed and other sheets were tangled about his bare legs. But the form beside him was sleeping instead of being conscious with him in the dark - instead of sharing with him in the dark.   
  
It was a shame, he thought idly and clacked his teeth against the glass, that his mouth spent so much more time on bottles than it did on flesh as of late. He could not say he was surprised or hurt.  
  
It only hurt when it stormed outside.  
  
_smoke baby, smoke baby  
  
more alcohol baby  
  
cocaine in Montreal   
  
and back out on a plane baby  
  
an early flight will leave and on it will be me  
  
I'll be half asleep  
  
and you'll get up at three_


End file.
